In Flames
by circleofstars
Summary: A snapshot. Short scene: unmarked graves prove to be very irritating indeed, and lessons are learnt. completely random, just wrote it for fun... reviews would be nice :D


_This is a one shot with absolutely no purpose to it... lol, I'll make a brilliant salesperson one day. Please, read my pointless story. Hope you enjoy!_

**In Flames**

_It's amazing, when you think about it. Something that lived, spoke, breathed, thought, loved, suffered and laughed, something that formed opinions, and made decisions, and got confused, and sometimes burst out irrationally with emotion. Something that was a person once, gone, so quickly, and so utterly. Beyond recall. In flames. _

_And, when you think about it, it seems strange for something so bright and lively and unpredictable, so alive, to be so destructive. Because the flames are pretty as you watch them, but before you know it everything you've lived for, loved for, is gone. In flames._

_And, though all he'd known and all he'd loved had crumbled in flames into ashes and grief, he made a new life for himself and his boys. But it, too, was a life wrought in flames_.

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John Winchester never admitted to being wrong, or even to being uncertain, because that would allow the possibility that he was wrong. He expected his sons to take his word as gospel, and to do as he said whatever happened. Without question. So, when Sammy asked whether he was sure it was the right grave, he gave his son a stern look before answering that of course, he was sure. Sammy asked too many questions, more than ever, now that he had turned thirteen and considered himself an adult.

'It doesn't look any different from any of the others,' Sammy pressed, waving a vague hand at the series of 'Anon' graves in the cemetery.

John, privately, had to agree. It was ridiculous, he reflected, not to know the identities of some twenty different bodies. He had heard of cemeteries in Europe from the wars which consisted entirely of stones engraved with the words 'A soldier of the Great War, known unto God', graves which may or may not contain the whole of one body, and may or may not belong entirely to one individual.

He shuddered at the thought of having to salt and burn one ghost in such a cemetery – you'd have to torch the whole damn field, to be certain – and thanked Providence that he wasn't hunting in Europe. This was bad enough: just twenty, one per tomb, but disfigured so badly on discovery that they had never been identified. The grisly murders had been studied with a morbid fascination by the press ten years ago, but never solved. One of the victims had been a priest, and by the disturbing crucifix-shaped burns on the recent bodies, it had been he who had returned. It still wasn't clear exactly who had killed the twenty nameless occupants of the row of tombs, but John was willing to stake his life on the bet that it was a member of the Hillard family.

John believed that this grave was the correct one because he had noticed in the daylight that it was darker coloured than the others, an effect he had seen before when spirits rose from their graves: the desecration of the ground caused a visible discolouration of the stone marking the resting place. At least, he had been confident of this in the day time, but now, the colour didn't seem so radically different from the other stones. However, he wasn't going to back down, he wasn't going to admit a sign of weakness.

'Dad, are you _sure_?' Sam persisted. 'Because we don't want to burn the wrong one, that would be…' The newly-teenage boy didn't know exactly how to finish that sentence. He knew that ghosts needed to be salted and burned, it was a formula ingrained in his consciousness from years of training. But, somehow, it seemed grievously unjust and disrespectful to dig up and burn the bones of an innocent victim. He struggled to put this sentiment into words, but he felt a keen sense of wrongness, and a concern to ensure that they definitely had the right one before they started digging.

'I'm sure, Sammy, now will you shut up and start digging?' John growled. He felt his other son's reproachful eyes on the back of his head, and felt a pang of guilt for being impatient with the younger boy, but quickly repressed it. Sammy needed to learn.

Sam moved closer to Dean, hoping to share his argument surreptitiously with his brother, and get back up without pissing his dad off any further. 'It's further from the trees… it could be darker just 'cause it's more exposed,' he mumbled stubbornly into the sleeve of Dean's coat. 'We should check. We can't just go around digging up graves randomly.'

John glared at his sons. When did this happen? Sam used to be so biddable. He remembered Dean as a toddler, asking his mother for something when John had already said no, because she was more reasonable. That was what Sam reminded him of. He stalked off to retrieve the salt and lighter fluid from the trunk, vowing silently to himself that if those boys weren't digging by the time he was back there would be hell to pay.

Dean reluctantly met the eyes of his younger brother. Reluctantly, because he thought Sam had a point, and he didn't want to let him down by telling him he was wrong, any more than he wanted to back him up and confront his father. He felt the awkward sensation of being stuck in the middle of an argument, tying to keep quiet, but appealed to by both parties for aid. It was a feeling which was becoming all too familiar recently.

Watching his fathers receding back until he was pretty sure he was out of earshot, he finally turned to Sammy, sighing.

'They're dead, Sammy… they're not gonna know if we've disturbed them.'

'I know, but… it's disrespectful.'

'They're just bones… eaten by worms, they don't need respect…' he argued, although he didn't really believe in what he was saying.

'Dean…' Those wide eyes pleaded with him, and he caved.

'Yeah, alright, I know. But Dad knows his stuff… it's our best bet, we don't have any better way of finding out which grave it is. And if we don't get him, the rest of that family are…'

'I know a better way.'

'You do?'

Dean blinked at his little brother. _He must have been reading again…_

'He was a priest, right? And his grave has been desecrated by him rising from it in spirit form. So, if you pour holy water on it…' He waved his hands around vaguely. 'It, you know… steams, hisses…'

Dean paused to take this in. 'Huh,' he said eventually. 'You know Sammy, you're more useful than I give you credit for.'

Sam grinned, and produced a small bottle of holy water from under his jacket. Dean blinked.

'And more devious,' he amended. 'Alright, check them, before dad gets back…' He wondered how he was going to justify digging a different grave to the one John had ordered, but dismissed the thought for the moment, hoping that his father wouldn't notice the difference in the dark.

As it happened, Sam had been right. The water soaked into the soil of all the graves but one, where it sprang up immediately in steam as though the grassy earth had been fire. The grave in question was at the opposite end of the line from the one John had chosen. The brothers exchanged a glance through a haze of steam, standing either side of the grave. Dean quirked an eyebrow. 'Shit.' Sighing in anticipation of his father's reaction, he started digging.

'That's the wrong one, son,' John called impatiently as he approached. Dean looked up at him, then looked at Sammy, and back at his father. _Here goes…_

'Sammy found out that a priest's grave repels holy water if it's been disturbed. It's this one, Dad…' He let the words tumble out of him all at once, hoping that, like ripping a plaster off, disagreeing with his father would be easier if it was done quickly.

There was a pause. John froze, reflecting. Sam was right, he remembered now, and reproached himself bitterly for forgetting. Admitting he was wrong was never among his talents, even before… when Mary was still alive. But sometimes, you just had to swallow it.

'I'll be damned,' he muttered. 'You're right, Sammy. I didn't think of that.' He laughed uncertainly, looking at Dean. 'He's more useful than we give him credit for,' he said, jerking his head towards his youngest.

Dean smiled, more in relief than for any other reason. 'That's what I said.'

A few minutes later, the three Winchesters found themselves watching, mesmerised, as the decayed bones of the preacher went up in flames. The bright light in the ark graveyard was bound to attract attention, but it was something of a family tradition to stay and watch, partially to make sure that no traces of the culprit remained to cause further trouble, and partially because it offered a rare moment of peace in their turbulent lives.

Sam gazed into the dancing yellow shapes, and felt contentment wash over him. It was a crazy life, and sometimes, he'd give anything to be normal. His dad could be a pain in the ass, behaving more like a drill sergeant than a parent. Dean could be as bad, agreeing with what their father said, and making fun of everything Sam attempted. It was cold, and dark, and what kind of normal person spends a Saturday night sitting in a cemetery watching bones burn? But for the moment, it was ok.

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_So, when you think about it, is it really all that bad? Maybe, if that's all you've ever known, you don't need anything else. Maybe, when all is said and done, a person can live all their life and be fulfilled without knowing anything other than flames. Because they're bright, and pretty, and unpredictable, life-giving and destructive, all at once. A life has to be fashioned from something. Why not flames?_

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Random one shot, no particular point to it at all. Hope ya liked it!


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